Layers
by Aspen Snow
Summary: For Miroku and Kagome the story has already been written. But beneath the destiny and fate is a tale of lust, of need, of fear, of hate, and a love they were never meant to have. Stories are never what they seem...
1. Layers of Hatred

**Layers of Hatred**

She could rewind time. She traveled from the future to the past and back again. She doesn't have to wish for yesterday, because she goes there, all the time, and it hurts just as much as today. Hurts just as much as tomorrow will.

The hurt has made her bitter, the pain has made her angry, it has made her _hate_. She never used to hate, she never used to be angry, she was never these things. Not until the promises of tomorrow stopped being so bright and the dreams of yesterday stopped being _real._

Because today she is alone in a future that she is starting forget and when she goes back to yesterday, when she goes back to _that_ past she is still alone. Because she has to be alone in a place that only exists, that only becomes real when _she_ goes there. And she doesn't belong there. She's just a visitor from a future that has yet to exist.

She hates time. She hates that today the past doesn't exist and yesterday the future doesn't. She hates that she can only live her life one half at a time. She hates that she used to believe things _stayed_ in the past. That mistakes and pain and fear died there. She hates that she knows they don't, she hates that she knows the past _lives_ even as you try to forget.

She hates that she's used so many of her todays trying to live in yesterday. And she hates that when she goes back to the future she still cries, she hates that time heals _nothing_.

Hates that it only makes her remember all the things she can _never_ have. Like him.

_Him_. Him with the dark eyes and the doom. Him who hated _her_ for hating what _he_ could never have.

Time.

There were no yesterdays for him, no tomorrows, just todays. He didn't have the time to remember the past, he _had_ to live for today because tomorrow might not be there when he woke up.

And when she cries he hates her a little more because after the fear and the pain and the _blood_ she still has tomorrow to go back to.

And all he has is a handful of borrowed todays that can last for only so long. He wonders if she would still cry if it was in the _future_ that she did not belong. Sometimes he wonders if _she_ hates _him_ for being able to live in _today._

He thinks maybe she is the only one that can make him mourn the life he will never have, he thinks maybe he hates her _more _for being just as bound by fate and broken as he is. He thinks maybe he hates her for not laughing, for not smiling anymore. He thinks he hates her for being so sad, for being so _haunted_ because it makes him _want _her.

And he promises himself everyday that he will want nothing. Because he knows if he wants something he will only lose it, and he knows if he loses something he will only miss it, and he knows if he misses something it will only hurt.

And he isn't going to live very long and he thinks his todays would be better without pain and regret and _ache._

She wonders when they started needing each other so much. She wonders when they started using each other so much. When he kisses her he can taste the future, when he touches her it's like tracing the edges of tomorrow. And when she tastes _him_, when she presses those cold beads into her own hand she remembers who she used to be. And when he looks at her with lust and desire and _want_ she remembers that time is a precious thing. And it has to be _lived._

And she thinks maybe she hates him for that. She thinks she hates him for making her live, for making her want, for making her _need_, when he has spent his whole life avoiding it all. She thinks maybe she hates him for making her want the pain he runs from. She thinks maybe she hates him because she understands _why_ he runs.

And so she lets him have her.

His mouth is always hot and urgent and _rough_. His hands are calloused and strong and impatient and when he takes her fast and _hard_ his eyes are open because he knows tomorrow he might not _see_ _this._

And she wraps herself around him, pulls his curves into her, holds on so hard it hurts, and she screams his name, because she knows tomorrow this _will_ _not exist._

And he hates _her_ for crying for tomorrow and she hates _him_ for the todays he will never have.


	2. Layers of Love

**Layers of Love**

He could die.

And really that was nothing special, nothing sad. Everybody died.

Lifetimes were only finite entities; they could only burn for so long.

Except everybody didn't know _how_ they would die, everybody didn't _know_ that they would die young, that they would die soon, everybody couldn't _feel_ the instrument of their death growing and ripping and spreading and _consuming._

Everybody didn't die a little everyday.

He could die.

And really that was nothing special, nothing sad.

It was tragic and heartbreaking and _wrong_. And he could do nothing about it, could do nothing to change his fate. Could only stare at his hand, run his fingertips across those beads and _pray_.

Pray that faith would be enough.

Except he knew it wasn't, always had known.

The prayer beads that kept his death at bay were only delaying the inevitable, they weren't stopping anything, they weren't really doing _anything_. Just giving him more time.

More time to make memories that would have to be left behind. More time to learn what it's like to love something he can never really have.

Like dirt roads that have yet to be discovered, roads where he _knows_ that someone will see his footsteps and know that he has been there. Roads where everything is new and strange and wild and crushed by_ nothing_. Roads that have yet to become roads that people will travel and make common and worn and predictable.

And he likes these unpredictable roads, loves these roads that aren't really roads because he doesn't know where they are going, because he doesn't _know_ what is at the end.

And he loves rainbows because they are bright and colorful and brilliant and always shine brightest after gray storms. And he loves the fact that such beauty can smile in the wake of such gloom and torment.

She loves them too, but she loves them because they make her think that yesterday and tomorrow can't be so different if a rainbow can shine equally as bright in both.

And he loves the tears she cries, at night, when she thinks no one is watching. He hates _why_, but he loves the tears. He loves the sadness, he finds comfort in the knowledge that she aches, that she pains, that she _feels_ just as much as he does.

Mostly he loves that she hides.

Because during the day she laughs and she smiles and she hums and she is _cheerful_ and he can pretend she isn't like him, he can pretend that she will live her life happily like everyone else.

He loves her secret pain because he won't ever love those everybody else people, and when she smiles he can pretend she is one of _those_ people.

And it hurts him to forget, like those nights when she is alone, mourning in the unforgiving darkness for the days she has lost and the days she will never have. And he isn't supposed to find people like him, people who measure life by days lost, and he isn't _supposed_ to love _her_, because it will hurt and tear and claw and _crush_.

Because he could die.

And he loves the night, because it's black and dark and has no memory. And he thinks maybe he can love _her_ beneath the light of the moon.

He loves the way she trembles when he touches her lips, he loves the way she shivers when he whispers, and he loves the way she stretches and curves and _gasps_ when he touches her. He thinks maybe he loves the way she's not really there, he thinks maybe he loves being with the shadow that's her.

He thinks maybe it will hurt less to love and lose a shadow than to love and lose _her._

But mostly he loves that she _leaves._ He loves that she goes back to future, to the tomorrows that she's missing. He loves that she leaves him here in the past, in her forgotten yesterdays to find more things to love, more things to miss.

He loves that she leaves because he thinks he _knows_ what it will be like when he finally does die. He thinks maybe it won't hurt so much to love _things_ if he already knows what it's like to lose them. He thinks maybe it won't hurt so much to love _her_ if he already knows what it's like to watch her leave.

Because he _knows_ the ache and the regret and the need. And he thinks maybe it won't torment him, plague and _haunt_ him so much now that he knows.

And so he loves her shadows and he loves watching her leave because he knows he can never _have_ her.

And he thinks maybe it will hurt less if he remembers that.


	3. Layers of Fear

**Layers of Fear**

She's being hunted.

By evil, by death, by _destiny_.

And while the thought of being prey to these dark things is terrifying, she is only afraid of the last. She only fears destiny. Because it is hers and it's determined and set and inescapable and _will_ happen.

She fears what cannot change.

Like time.

Because twenty four hours can _never_ be enough. And because sometimes it is_ too_ much. And sometimes she wishes that things were more flexible more fluid more changeable and she wishes she could alter her fate.

But she can't.

So she fears it because it hurts knowing that she can't have beyond what _is_ her life. And she wishes she weren't so definable.

And she fears spring because it's beautiful and vibrant and colorful and soft and _temporary._ Because she knows it will fade into dark and violent shades, because she knows those spring things will _die_.

And when they come back, when they're alive and bright and real she has to watch them die _again_.

And she thinks things shouldn't die over and over and over again. She thinks they should die _once_.

Because it hurts less that way.

So she fears spring because it's beautiful and she loves it and it dies and dies and dies.

And she fears _him_. She hates him and loves him and _fears _him.

She fears the way he looks at her dark and hard and _long_ because he makes her feel alive and real and someone other than _her_. And when she feels the beat of his heart beneath her hand she thinks maybe she can hold onto him.

And she fears _that_.

Because she is being hunted by evil and death and a destiny that has no room for _him._ And she fears hope because she knows it never lasts.

She fears the space between their bodies. She fears the echoes of his fingertips on her skin because she wants more that just an _echo_ of him.

She wants _more_. She wants his smile and his eyelashes on her cheek and the hand on her thigh and the sighs and _moans_ and swish of purple fabric in the wind.

She fears the space between their bodies because it is _too_ real.

And she hates him and loves him and fears him and _wants_ him too damn much.

He fears the eyes of old people because they are experienced and wise and they are on the verge of death. And they can _see_ the end in him. And he fears their knowledge and their pity because sometimes he forgets that he has no _beginnings_.

Just ends.

And he fears nothing.

It's what he fears most. The _nothing._

In his hands he holds a black hole of never-ending nothing, a dark abyss where things disappear, where people cease existing. They don't die, they just fade away until voices and memories and eyes and faces are forgotten _forever_.

He fears his death not because life will cease to exist but because _he _will cease to exist. He will be absorbed into his black nothing and he will _become_ nothing.

And he fears dying _forever_. Because death should only be momentary. Because death should only be a transition from life to memory. And when he dies he will become part of nothing.

And he will go from life to death to _nothing_. And there will be no memories no stories no _things_. There will just be nothing.

And he fears that.

Because he thinks maybe he is something.

He thinks maybe she's made him into _something._ Because she holds him so tight, so tight like she doesn't want to let go. And she traces his face, her fingers skim over the edges and the lines and the scars like she's memorizing them, like she's retracing them.

Re-making him.

And he fears how he's tempted to hold onto _her_, tempted to _claim_ her.

Because he knows they can never have each other. Because she fears a destiny that _tells_ her who she belongs to and he fears a destiny that dooms him to _nothing_.

And he fears holding onto her because he thinks maybe she is the only thing he has ever wanted.


	4. Layers of Dialogue

**Layers of Dialogue**

"Do you love her?" she asks and it's not such a tricky question because he already knows what he is going to say.

"No." But he wonders why she is asking because he thinks it doesn't really matter.

"Do you love me?" And that is a complicated question because he already knows how he's _supposed_ to answer. And he's glad she's not looking at him because her eyes are too _tempting._

"No." And he's not sure it's the answer she wants. He's not sure if it's the answer _he_ wants.

"Why?" _Because I can't_ is what he wants to say. But he doesn't. Because he's a coward.

"Because I could die." Or maybe he's brave.

"No. Why don't you love _her_?" Or just really stupid. And he can't figure out why she wants to _know_.

"Oh. _Ok_. Because I can't." And he can't. He really _really _can't.

"Why?" _Because I love you_ is what he wants to say but he doesn't. Because he can't. Because he _shouldn't. _She's never been _his_ to love.

"You can't love someone who only loves their family, their honor, and their revenge." And he wishes that _were_ the truth. He wishes it wasn't because she just_ wasn't_ what he wanted.

"And me?" _Yes_ he thinks. _I want you. _But he doesn't say that either.

"What about you?" He asks because he already knows all about her. He knows the scars and the scent and the _feel_ of her. He knows the smiles and the tears and the _touch_ of her. And when she looks at him with desire and want and _need_ he knows _why_. Because he looks at her the same way.

"What do I love?" _Me_ he wants to say. But he doesn't. Because he thinks there is a chance she might agree with him. And he thinks that would hurt. A lot.

"You love lazy days and quiet nights. You love the helpless and the weak. You love the sad and the beautiful. You love the things that remind you of home." And he wants to smile because she _does_ love all these things. But he doesn't. Because he is the only one who _does_ know all these things that she loves and it's not right that he can't have her.

"And you." And it's a whisper, a softly spoken secret he isn't sure he is meant to hear.

"What?" he asks thinking if he pretends he _didn't_ hear she'll replace that whisper with something else. Something more real. Or something less _true._

"And I love _you_." And this time it isn't a whisper, it's a statement, a _declaration. _And he knows better than to let it in. He knows better than to _believe_. Because in this world, with _them,_ it can't ever be true.

"No─ him." And the words are bitter in his mouth, hard and uncomfortable and he has a hard time getting them _out._ But someone has to say them. Because this thing they are doing─ _this_ ─is only an illusion. It is never meant to be.

"What?" And he thinks maybe she is the one pretending not to hear. But she _has_ to.

"You love _him_." And he's never wanted that undeniable truth to be so _wrong_ before. Because nobody _deserves_ her. Except he thinks maybe he does because he is dying and he's never wanted anything. Except maybe _this._

"Oh right. I love him." And he shouldn't be surprised that it hurts so much to hear her say that. But it does. Every time. Because he thinks that she doesn't believe it so much anymore.

"You should remember that." And he didn't want to _have_ to say that and he wishes that it wasn't really the truth. Because he knows _why_ he was never meant to have her. Because he is dying. And destiny couldn't possible be so cruel as to make her fall in love with a dying man. Except he knows it is.

"Maybe _you_ should remember that." _I should_ he wants to say to her. But he doesn't because he's beginning to think he really shouldn't _have_ to do what is expected of him. Because he's feeling a little bit selfish and because he thinks maybe he shouldn't be the only one _not _to get what he wants.

"Maybe." And she smiles and he thinks maybe she's being a little bit selfish too. Because she wants what she isn't _supposed_ to have.

"It's just that─" And he doesn't really know what she is going to say and he wonders why she doesn't let him _go_.

"What?" _I love you_ he wants to say. But he doesn't. Because he _knows_ she would give it all up if he gave her a reason to. And he thinks maybe she deserves more than him.

"Sometimes…" _I see you in my dreams_ hewants to say because he wonders if she sees him too.

"You forget?" he asks instead, except he _never_ forgets. That's his problem. He thinks maybe when he _does_ die he will see her face and her smile and just _her_. And he thinks maybe he's going to hell because he's messed everything up. _Everything_.

"Yeah." She says, and she reaches for him with trembling fingers and wide eyes and he lets her. And he _knows _he's going to hell because she_ isn't_ his and because he's ruining her and everything she is _supposed_ to be.

"Me too." And he knows he shouldn't have said that because it's _wrong._ Because he knows that things in hell burn and scream and _hurt_ so much more.

But he's beginning to think that maybe the road to hell is its own reward.


	5. Layers of Knowing

**Layers of Knowing**

She knows things.

A lot of things.

Terrible things.

She knows that the future isn't bright and hopeful and new and shining. She knows that the future is less than what it should be. She knows that there is a grimy film of tainted smoke lingering in the air.

She knows that in the future everything is polluted and dull and a little bit repulsive. And there are times she is tempted to tell them that. There are times when she is tempted to tell _him_ that.

Because she hates his _awe_. She hates and envies the way he can close his eyes and still see a future that's perfect and beautiful and _right_. Because she _knows_ it isn't and sometimes she wants him to be just as jaded and disillusioned as her.

Because he knows he is dying and he is so _alive. _And she has a whole future, a whole life waiting for her and she is so _dead_ inside.

She wonders if he knows how lucky he is to know nothing.

He envies her time but what he doesn't know, what _she_ knows, is that in the future there are clocks that tick and chime and never _stop_. What she knows, and what he doesn't, is that in the future _everybody_ is reminded that they are dying, except in the future there's more to lose than just days.

There are hours and minutes and seconds. He doesn't know that he has these things, these hours, these minutes, these seconds. He doesn't know that in the future entire lifetimes are lived in moments.

And she never tells him because she's come to love the way time slows down in the past, she's come to love the way days stretch. She's come to love the way time _crawls. _

And she knows that if she told him then he would _know_ that in the future he _could_ have a lifetime. And she knows he would hate her for wishing for less time.

But she thinks lifetimes should take lifetimes to live and that every second should _not_ count. Because it's just too much time to try to _live_ and he doesn't know that in the future the roses are just flowers, the mornings are ominous, and the nights are black time never used. He doesn't know what it's like to watch time go by and _not care._

So she doesn't tell him because she hates the awe and wonder he shrouds himself in because she wants it back _so badly_.

She's forgotten what it's like to believe in things. He hasn't.

He believes in reincarnation and God and the smell of rain and touch and taste and the certainty of his own death. And she's left with _knowing_.

She knows science and reason and evolution and all the things that tell her God does not exist. She knows about the ocean and weather and cycles and why the rain falls. She knows about factories and chemicals and dyes and manufacturing that can create touches and tastes that were never meant to exist. She knows about hospitals and surgery and medicine and cars and airplanes and guns and _crime_ and all those things that make death simultaneously escapable and _inevitable_.

She knows there is no magic no wonder no _real_ miracles in the world. And she hates that in the past she is the only one that knows the world is nothing more than a perfectly crafted machine that will continue to function long after she ceases to exist.

She hates the _knowing_. And there are times when the hate is so strong and so _angry_ that she tells _him_ of the things she knows.

There was the time she told him that the Earth rotated around the Sun. She remembers later that night when they were alone and he was quiet she asked him what he was thinking about. She remembers him smiling and saying he was thinking about what part of the world the sun was shining on right now.

And she hated him for being able to _wonder_ even after knowing.

There was the time she told him that man would walk on the moon. She remembers him asking what it feels like to walk on another world.

And she hated him for being _curious_ even after knowing.

There was the time she told him about evolution and microorganisms and particles and atoms and cells. She remembers him saying how it was amazing that things could be created out of practically nothing.

And she hated him for being _awed_ even after knowing.

Then there was the time she told him that shooting stars were not really stars at all but meteoroids, chunks of earth melting and exploding. And she remembers the next time they saw a shooting star, she remembers the way he looked at it as if it had _betrayed_ him.

She knows now that he never looks up anymore, never watches the stars, idly dreaming about what they are, where they are, or what they mean. She knows he doesn't make wishes, she knows he doesn't smile when the night flashes white.

Because he _knows_.

And every night when she watches him sleep in the dark, when she watches him sleep away the time he used to spend dreaming she hates herself.

She hates herself and she hates _him_. Because she already _knows_ what its like to watch time fade away, she already knows what its like to feel it slip through fingers trembling and desperate.

And she thinks it's only fair that he _know_ what its like to lose hope. She thinks it's only fair that he know that miracles do _not_ exist.

That they never did.


	6. Layers of Her Dialogue

**Layers of Her Dialogue **

_**She feels with her hands that her heart is made of stone…**_

"Will you go back?" and it's a question she was sure he would _never_ ask.

"Yes." She says because it's too late for lies now, or perhaps, she thinks, it's too _early_.

"When?" he asks, but she thinks he must already know the answer.

"When its over" _and your dead_ she wants to say, but she doesn't because he already _knows_ that and she thinks if she just doesn't say it _out loud_ he will live a little longer.

"It may never end" he says and she wonders, again, where he finds the strength to _hope_.

"It will" she says and when his eyes trail sadly over her face she wonders where he finds the strength to still _believe_. And when he closes his eyes and bows his head and turns into himself searching for that strength she wonders why he still _does it_.

Because it takes hours and minutes and seconds to search for that and there's too much _blood_ to believe that it actually _works_.

And she hates his blind faith because he holds onto to it so _fiercely _that she thinks it's all he can ever _feel_ anymore. And she hates that because it _isn't _working because he is still dying _every day_.

Because she watches him pray knees bent and hands clasped and eyes closed and she thinks it's all so _useless_ because if he just opened his eyes and stood up straight he would see that there was _nothing_ there but stale air and lost words and he would realize that he _could_ stand on his own without believing in something that won't save him anyways.

She thinks there should be more to his life than living for the memory of something that died when miracles still existed.

Because miracles are all fiction and fable and life is _real_ and death is _real_ and there is no escaping _that_.

"How do you know?" and for a minute she thinks he's asking how she knows about death and she briefly contemplates telling him that in future _everyone _knows they are going to die. But she doesn't.

"Because I don't belong _here_" _but sometimes I think I do_ she wants to say, but she doesn't because she thinks it will be easier for _him_ to think he never had a choice.

"Do you hate the past so much?" he asks and she wonders if he really means something _else_.

"No." and that was the problem.

"No?" and it's less a question than it is a statement of curiosity.

"I hate the future." And it is the first thing she has said to him that she has truly _truly_ meant.

"Why?" and she's not sure why he _wants_ to know.

"Because it's where I am _supposed_ to belong" _and it means you really _are _dead_ is what she doesn't say because he doesn't need to know that she has _always_ known that he was going to die.

"I understand" and she laughs because he understands so much. Except maybe _this_.

"No you don't" and he really _really_ doesn't because all he wants is to live _here_ in this place where he belongs. And all _she_ wants is to be with him _here_ where she _doesn't _belong.

"You're right, I don't" and he's angry and she feels so small for enjoying the fact that she can make him feel _something_. Because sometimes she thinks he is just using her to forget everything else and sometimes she thinks that she is just using _him _to feel like she is _wanted_.

Because he's said "hi" and "good morning" and "please" and "thank you" and "harder" and "_now"_ but he's never said "you're beautiful".

And she wants a man to tell her she's beautiful because then she would know that he wants her and _that_ at least she _knows_.

She's not sure she knows what its like to love so she thinks it's unfair to want a man to love her. She thinks if she expects the things she knows it will at least give her something real she can hold onto.

Because she needs _something_ and she's _never_ had him.

"It doesn't matter though" she says more to herself than to him. Because it really _doesn't_. She's just a girl lost in a foreign place and time. She can't change _anything_. And she tells him "I have to go back."

"Yes you do" he says and she wants to cry because she would stay if he would just _ask_. But his eyes are closed and he's blind again and she's suddenly _angry_.

"It won't ever work you know" she says through gritted teeth and five hundred years of knowing. And she instantly wishes it was the _one_ thing she _hadn't_ said.

"I know" and his eyes are still closed and his hands are still clasped and she still doesn't _get it_.

"Then why…" she trails off because she's afraid she will keep hurting him with her words.

"Because I _want _the lie" and this time his eyes are open and all shimmering and poignant and _cliché_ and she thinks it would be so funny if it didn't hurt so much.


End file.
